


A (Divine) Comedy Of Errors

by WyvernQuill



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (god how could I forget that tag), (who gets what he deserves eventually), Awkward Dates, Bodyswap, Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Footnotes, Gift Exchange, Happy GO Anniversary Everybody!, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Miscommunication, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Oblivious, SO MANY FOOTNOTES, The Arrangement (Good Omens), and a douche-y angel, as they inevitably must, just a fun romp really, shenanigans ensue, the basic premise is that they continue hanging out in each other's bodies post-Apocalypse, with a hint of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: One (1) restaurant (see Ritz)Three (3) supernatural beings:- One (1) angel (see celestial)- One (1) demon (see occult)- One (1) another angel (see third wheel)Three (3) courses at a very reasonable price (see Valentine's Day Special, "Two Hearts For The Price Of One"), ×2Twelve (12) red roses (see love)Twelve (12) yellow roses (see friendship)Two (2) tables, not within sight of each otherTwo (2) separate dinner datesOne (1, but feeling like a good deal more) disaster.(Or, alternatively: a story of body-swapping, misapprehensions, various shenanigans, and love, in both its truest and most misguided form.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 107
Collections: Adversarial Anniversary Celebration





	A (Divine) Comedy Of Errors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CurseUndone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurseUndone/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for CurseUndone, who wanted something fun and fluff in which Aziraphale and Crowley continue body-swapping post-apocalypse!  
> (There's a bit of angst in there, maybe, but it's 100% from Crowley being stupid, and unrelated to the body-swap, so I hope that's alright...)
> 
> WARNING: I didn't put it in the tags because it's played entirely for laughs and not at all an actual, legitimate ship this fic is about, but there is an angel in here with a bit of a stalker-y crush on Aziraphale, who Crowley tries to get rid of by going on a date with him (yes, I know, he's an idiot), so if that's not your cup of tea, turn back now!  
> (Aziraphale/Crowley is obviously the endgame ship here, and it's all very fun and light-hearted, don't worry.)
> 
> And finally, hope you enjoy!

Allow us to set the scene, Esteemed Reader.

One (1) restaurant (see _Ritz)_

Three (3) supernatural beings

  * One (1) angel (see _celestial)_
  * One (1) demon (see _occult)_
  * One (1) another angel (see _third wheel)_



Three (3) courses at a very reasonable price (see _Valentine's Day Special, "Two Hearts For The Price Of One"),_ ×2

Twelve (12) red roses (see _love)_

Twelve (12) yellow roses (see _friendship)_

Two (2) tables, not within sight of each other

Two (2) separate dinner dates

One (1, but feeling like a good deal more) disaster.*

*And four hundred pounds (400£) in the waitstaff's betting pool only just on the cusp of being cashed in, as well as one (1) gourmet rat discovering the joys of cooking in the kitchen (see _health code violation)_ , but the author happens to be in a bit of a bind regarding the deadline, so we must needs leave the serving staff to their own adventures.

Now, on to the plot:

In Crowley's opinion, this was, without question-

...oh.

Ah.

We must apologise profusely to the Esteemed Reader (the author is well aware of the embarrassment of having a minor faux-pas pointed out, especially in such a refined setting as the Ritz) but, well... they're currently looking at the wrong side of the table.

That middle-aged bookseller - well. Book"""seller""" - with the frumpy cardigan and the awkwardly pained expression was _not,_ in fact, Aziraphale; and the man opposite him categorically failed to be Crowley.

* * *

To explain these unusual circumstances, let us turn back time by roughly a week - which, yes, we may do, in our role as all-powerful narrators.*

*Not to worry, dear Reader. We won't let it get to our head.

Another scene, then:

Aforementioned frumpy bookseller smiling brightly at the arrival of a tall, gangly man who one would either assume to be a criminal or an investment banker (or both, there is quite a bit of overlap between these two identities).

They check their surroundings - the bookseller's shop is empty.

Their hands touch - and now, dear Reader, pay very close attention.

Have you ever seen-

No. No, you haven't, we can guarantee you you haven't seen _this._

Nobody ever sees this moment, when the magician's hand performs only the tiniest flourish, and one card slides into a sleeve, another sliding out of one. Quick and subtle, impossibly smooth, and suddenly there's the sleeve card in the deck, and the deck card in the sleeve, and the audience none the wiser.

What happens then to Aziraphale and Crowley is very much like this, only involving less rabbits.

Afterwards, the gangly figure leaves the shop with just a hint less saunter in his step, and the frumpy bookseller settles into the chair behind the counter with just a bit more of a sprawl, doing something he would categorically deny was moping.

* * *

You see, Aziraphale and Crowley, in recent months, had developed a bit of a taste for… _switching.*_

*The Esteemed Reader is advised to take their mind and move it out of the gutter. This isn't _that_ kind of story.**

**That certain persons of protagonist nature rather _wanted_ it to be is entirely besides the point.

To suddenly occupy a demonic/angelic vessel respectively had been an exhilarating experience, startlingly exciting and at the same time comfortable, and they'd found that repeating the performance felt not unlike sinking into the comfort of a pillow still warm from the dryer, or settling perfectly into a memory foam mattress.*

*Has the Esteemed Reader ever seen a cat's belly and put their face in it? The experience is much along the same vein.

So.

They'd done it again.

(Right there at their table in the Ritz, which was quite scandalous for the standards of one prim and repressed angel, and a demon who was reduced to ngk-ing by the mere thought of touching celestial essences even in the privacy of one's own home with all the blinds shut and while avoiding eye contact.)

And then again.

In the beginning, they explained it away as a precautionary measure, should Heaven and Hell come after them again*, but it soon turned into more of a proof of trust, lending the other their body to traipse about with, and return in mint condition later.

*Seeing as Beelzebub and Gabriel still jumped half out of their skins whenever the mould stains/the coffee grounds formed into a shape even vaguely reminiscent of a certain angel or demon, it was quite unlikely this would ever come to pass.

It was nice. It was comfortable. It was friendship in its purest form.

But, see, here's the thing:

At the end of the day, Crowley was and would always be a demon, mortal sins and all; and he was _greedy._

And it was one thing, being _within_ a body, allowed to wear it for awhile out of genuine trust and an acknowledgement of their closeness of character and companionship, and a whole _other_ thing to be able to... explore that body from the outside, if the Esteemed Reader catches our drift.*

*Metaphorical eyebrows are being waggled quite vigorously, so we would be much obliged if the Esteemed Reader catches on before we irreversibly strain some forehead muscle.

Crowley felt like a right toff, thinking it, but what could you do. He loved Aziraphale dearly, and while his body and the friendship evident in the lending it out was absolutely smashing, it was really rather more about _Aziraphale himself_ for him.

Honestly, the angel could be wearing the corporation of Beelzebub zirself, and Crowley wouldn't even hesitate.* 

*Though he'd probably arm himself with a flyswatter first.

So it was quite vexing to Crowley that, despite being so close that the lines between their corporations were all blurred, somehow, they were more distant from each other than ever.

They still took dinner at the Ritz, of course. Still fed the ducks. Put on the other's body and life with the same ease you would be sharing a hoodie with...

But... oh, Crowley didn't even know.

He'd always thought that, the _millisecond_ the heavy yoke of Heaven and Hell lifted from their shoulders, they would be free to, to...

_Mingle._

Instantly and vigorously.*

*For this exact reason, Crowley had, with what he'd thought to be wise foresight, placed a stash of lube and condoms in a little pocket of spacetime for after the body swap stint.

It was still there.

Mocking him.

He'd thought it was what Aziraphale wanted, too! All that "you go too fast for me" stuff, the lingering glances, the discreet wiggles... for Someone's Sake, Crowley knew Victorian love language! He KNEW that the upside-down book had been an invitation to, to...

Except, apparently, it hadn't.

And Crowley wasn't _ungrateful._

If all Aziraphale needed of him was a purely platonic other half to share his life with in every sense but the romantic or sexual, fine. He could be that for his angel.He'd be HAPPY to do it, it was more than he'd ever dreamed of. Aziraphale was a wonderful friend, charming and clever and full of dry wit, and his body, even sans Aziraphale, was warm and soft and uniquely comfy to be in.

He'd do a damn good job of it, too. Make sure his yearning wasn't obvious. He'd add that he was going to be a perfect gentleman with Aziraphale's body as well, but as mentioned, there really was no point if Aziraphale wasn't occupying it.*

*Humans might struggle to understand it, being so eternally trapped in their mortal forms, but as much as Crowley had longed for the opportunity to softly stroke his hands down Aziraphale's plump thighs and rest his head on his stomach, the appeal had lain solely in it being _Aziraphale._

Without the angel occupying it, the corporation alone inspired the same feelings in Crowley as all humanoid bodies did: "what an unnecessary fuss, and I could really do without the icky fluids".

Crowley was nothing if not accommodating, and Go- Sa- SOMEONE help him, accommodate he would. At least he always had the knowledge of being first and foremost in Aziraphale's thoughts, his closest relation, even if it wasn't everything Crowley wanted.

Yeah.

Yeah, this was fine.

This was... fine.

  
  
  


Or at least it HAD been, right up to the emergence of... _Peter._

  
  
  


Peter, in case the Esteemed Reader is wondering, was one of the few bookshop regulars that were either committed or stupid enough to actually _frequent_ the bookstore, rather than accidentally wander in a second time and instantly remembering why they'd vowed to give it a wide berth the first time.

Crowley had, in all the time he'd spent curled up in Aziraphale's body and life, rather wondered why. It wasn't like Peter ever _bought_ anything - which, more likely that not, was the only reason he was apparently tolerated when the angel himself was behind the counter, rather than Crowley in disguise.*

*Crowley rather suspected a mold fetish, and had left him to it. No kink-shaming from him, no sir!

  
  
  


And, on this sunny spring day, with the lark in bloom and all that poppycock, Peter happened to reveal why, precisely, he'd been hanging so doggedly around the bookshop...

* * *

"Er. Mr Fell?" 

Crowley glanced up, to see a man in his early forties. He seemed to be one of that insufferable sort that had always meant to be handsomely greying and gracefully aged, and…

Look. It was Aziraphale for Crowley, forever and ever, but... occasionally he came across a human outer shell he couldn't help but take a second look at and wonder if that had been one of dear old Lucy's, who'd always had a habit of making the male humans sinfully pretty.*

*Crowley, no matter what else he identified as, had been, and always would be, very, _very_ gay.

_Right._ Crowley thought. _Time to put on The Face._

He smiled until his cheeks hurt, then he smiled some more.

"What can I do for you?" He fussed warmly, tacking on a "dear boy?" for good measure.

"I. I was wondering." Peter's face took on a rather fetching blush. Yep, yep, definitely Satan's. "If you were free on Valentine's Day to, ah... have lunch with me?"

Crowley dropped The Face, and did the cognitive equivalent of falling to his knees and scrambling desperately to find it again, only to bonk his head on the table and ungracefully sprawl on the floor with his pants split at the seat.*

*There was also a metaphorical cream pie and banana peel involved. Most pitiful display.

"Ngk!" He said, except, in Aziraphale's body, it came out rather more like "ahermmmm…!"

Okay.

Okay okay okay.

He could handle this. He could. Aziraphale had given him a handy briefing on how to deal with emergencies, and while 'A Customer Is Keen On Me' had not been addressed, 'A Customer Is Keen On My Books' _had_ been, and Crowley felt the basics would be easily transferable.

"Absolutely not!" He snapped - _yes, snapped, NOT stammered!_ "Out of the question!"

Peter didn't seem fazed.

Instead, he snuck a glance over his shoulder, leaned in slightly with a conspiratorial wink, and said "oh, don't worry, Aziraphale. I'm not a human!"

Crowley blinked.

"I'm sorry, I should've introduced myself properly sooner - Petrael, remember?"

Crowley blinked again. He did a lot of that in his body, more than in his usual.

"9th Choir? Around 400 BC? You encouraged my academic interest in earth and humanity?"

A slow nod seemed in order.

"Oh, I'm sorry again, you really had no idea didn't you? I've gotten rather good at disguising my Angelic Essence, wouldn't you say!"

Another nod. Crowley was steadily upgrading from his usual low-key state of anxiety to a full-blown panic. An angel! In the bookshop!*

*FLIRTING!!!

"Much like you. It's uncanny, if I hadn't known it was you, I could've _sworn_ I was only looking at your corporation, with someone else occupying it!"

"Errrrrrrhem." Said Crowley, and wondered if he shouldn't maybe sit down somewhere. Or draw up a new will.*

*His last one was from the 1600s, and simply read "To Fell goeth the Lott, lest Hell maketh some Clayme on It", a phrasing which the Cromwellian firm he'd employed had initially disagreed with, until he'd flashed enough coin at them to keep their families in nice-looking rags and mildly-spiced gruel for the next four generations.

It was nice to be miracle-rich sometimes, wasn't it.

Peter - Petrael? - beamed with the glow of Heaven's Light, and simply continued nattering on.

"They're fascinating little creatures, humans, aren't they? I absolutely understand why you decided to save them, even if you had to enlist-" that angelic smile scrunching up in disgust "-a _demon's_ help to achieve those aims. I do hope you've broken off contact with that monster since?"

"Ah." Said that very same demon. "Ngknaturally. Haven't even seen him in months. Don't know where he is. Definitely not here! Antarctic. Probably. Corrupting penguins."*

*Penguins were, in fact, pillars of moral fortitude, and would never betray their ideals, not even when offered mountains of fresh fish or ultimate power over their brethren, and would instead peck the wily demon who offered them such half to death.

(Please, _please_ don't ask how Crowley knew that. And he'd thought he'd have an easier time than with the polar bears, too...)

"Wonderful!" Petrael exclaimed, in that same patronising, 'good on you for giving me the _right_ answer' way Gabriel had elevated to an art form.*

*On Crowley's list of Petrael's unforgivable character flaws, "Gabriellic" joined "wants to tumble Aziraphale, that BASTARD", which was underlined thrice and followed by an absolutely obscene number of exclamation marks.

"The Ritz, then? At 6?"

Crowley stuttered.

The way he looked at it, he was lamentable short on options.

First of, Petrael obviously _couldn't_ know about the body-swap. That would be the absolute _worst_ thing to possibly ever happen under any circumstances, since, no matter what his relation to the rest of Heaven currently was, it would instantly remove that lonely little ace up his and Aziraphale's sleeve that was the only thing keeping them alive.

And Crowley, equally obviously, couldn't say yes. For one, he wasn't the angel Petrael was so dreadfully keen on - who could blame him* - but rather a despicable demon; and secondly, aforementioned need for secrecy.

*Crowley. Crowley could and _would_ blame him.

But Crowley couldn't exactly say _no,_ either.

Petrael struck him as the tenacious sort, and though he clearly hadn't pined after Aziraphale for as long or pathetically as Crowley had, he seemed all the more determined for it, and would likely accost him again tomorrow - only, then, it would actually be _Aziraphale._

Which would spell disaster, naturally.

Either, Petrael would notice a marked difference between Crowziraphale and the original and alert Heavenly Authorities, or…

Well.

It was _one_ thing, being content with "only" having Aziraphale's friendship, and a whole other seeing him dating anyone else.*

*And Aziraphale _would_ date Petrael. Even if the handsomeness and the interest in humanity didn't win him over, Aziraphale's inexplicable Englishness made it very difficult for him to actually say _no._

There was at least a pity date in there, and Crowley could _never_ allow it.

No, no, that was absolutely out of the question. Aziraphale mustn't ever hear of Petrael's existence, and even less of his - inappropriate! Disgusting! Other synonyms expressing Crowley's ire! - propositioning.

The solution was obvious.

In honour of his middle name*, Crowley straightened his spine and braced himself to take action.

*Anthony Jselfsacrifice Crowley.

The way he saw it, it was one date.

One date Aziraphale need never hear of, and which Crowley was going to mercilessly run into the ground.

He was going to be boorish. He was going to be boring. He was going to be so _impossibly_ annoying that Petrael would storm off before the soup course was through, and never contact Aziraphale again until the inevitable heat death of the universe.

Then, Crowley could return to his routine of quietly pining and enjoying Aziraphale's company, and the angel need never hear of the bullet Crowley had run into for him.

Yes.

Perfect plan.*

*Standard disclaimer: this plan of the rom-comedic variety is, naturally, anything _but_ perfect, and frankly _beyond_ inadvisable.

The Esteemed Reader is urged to take close note of Crowley's actions and, if ever placed in any even remotely similar situation, do the exact opposite.

"Why, my _dear_ old friend!" Crowley laid it on so thickly you could scrape the topmost layer of Aziraphalisms off with a butter knife and still have enough to go around. "I would be positively delighted, thank you, old chap!"

Petrael beamed even wider at that.

Crowley _itched_ to rearrange that smug little _stupidly handsome_ face, but forced himself to respond with the warmest smile he could muster;

All the while plotting Petrael's downfall.

* * *

_So, Esteemed Reader, this accounts for one of the two Valentine's Day specials, one of the dinner tables, the demon (bookseller body edition), one of the angels, and the twelve red roses, which Crowley had liberally spiked with bees.*_

_*Ineffectively. The bees had reacted to Petrael not unlike wildlife did to Snow White._

_There was still one happily crawling through his perfectly-styled salt-and-pepper curls. Stupid angel perfection._

_As for the rest of the itinerary, well…_

* * *

"Is something the matter, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked, once they'd swapped back, and settled on a bench together, throwing peas to the ducks.

"Nnngk. N-. No. Nope. Nu-uh. All fine. Yeah." Crowley said, very convincingly, and, in his calm, absolutely unfazed and non-panicking state, nearly brained a duck with a small pea-cluster.

"Careful, my dear." Aziraphale sighed, and miracled the duck's impending headache away. "Are you absolutely certain there's nothing troubling you?"

Crowley pulled a reassuring grimace, and was absolutely not sweating through his favourite grey-black shirt. "N-nothingk."

"Hm." Aziraphale shot him the sort of sideways look that bled concern and hurt, conveying _'oh, I do wish you'd trust me enough to share your troubles with me, my dear boy'_ as effectively as if he'd written it on his forehead in lipstick.*

*In case of concern non-recognition, push back fluffy curls and emphatically gesture to lipstick inscription.

"Well. In that case." Aziraphale's expression smoothed out, as if someone had taken a hot iron to it, and was folded carefully into a friendly smile.*

*Crowley's expression, on the other hand, was rather along the lines of something caught in a spin cycle.

"I wonder, would you like to have dinner with me on Saturday? The Ritz, around 6 o'clock?"

"Yes," Crowley said, immediately.

  
  
  


(And then, later, when he was back home, standing in front of his calendar and seeing the words 'fake date with stupid angel' scribbled under Saturday, 14th of February:

"Oh, _shit.")_

  
  
  


And, since Crowley was Crowley, the thought of cancelling or rescheduling the appointment with Aziraphale - _voluntarily NOT spending time with his beloved angel!_ \- never even occurred to him.

* * *

_This, then, explained the second dinner da-_ no, not date, just dinner, JUST. DINNER. _\- with the other angel, as well as the roses Crowley had hastily miracled yellow to symbolify merely friendly affection when he chickened out around two streets before arriving at the Ritz.*_

_*This had actually ended up being rather prudent, since the colour-coding had made it easier to give Aziraphale the bouquet NOT beset by bees._

* * *

So, to finally return to that early sentence we left uncompleted:

In Crowley's opinion, this was, without question, the absolute worst date he'd ever been on - and that was saying a lot, considering he'd never had the pleasure of attending one before.*

*Aziraphale didn't count. That was. Platonic. Yes.

_And they hadn't even ordered yet!_

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


"...and then I said to the human 'be not afraid', and although it remained a bit skittish…"

"Ahahahaha," Crowley said weakly, gulping down another glass of wine.

When it had become clear that Petrael was so committed to charming him - charming Aziraphale - that he wouldn't let anyone get a word in edgewise,* Crowley had attempted to laugh at inopportune moments and consume alcohol at a rate even the most hardened of day-drinking socialites would find concerning.

*Not even the waiter; though this was a blessing in disguise, since the man in question had stared at Crowley most icily, clearly disapproving of "Mr Fell" seeking alternate company on Valentine's Day.**

**The waitstaff at the Ritz had formed certain… _misapprehensions_ regarding the nature of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship over the years they had dined there, which was rather understandable.

One did not wine and dine one another so excessively (and _expensively)_ without being somewhat invested in one's relationship.

Petrael had yet to notice.

What a douche, Crowley thought to himself, increasingly glad that it was _him,_ and not Aziraphale-

_Aziraphale._

"Ehem." Crowley cleared his - well, Aziraphale's - throat.

Cleared it a bit louder.

Hacked and coughed to a degree that made numerous other patrons at nearby tables frown at him with pointedly stiffened lips.

Giving up, Crowley upended his wine glass over his lap.

"Oh DEAR!" He intoned dramatically. "Let me go to the facilities and clean this up momentarily."

Petrael frowned - in a manner that was, for all his flaws, still infuriatingly handsome, damn the angel - and said "can't you miracle-"

"Must dash!" Crowley jumped up, rushing to get out of eyesight.

Once safely ensconced behind a potted plant, he snapped the wine stain out of existence, and then made his way around the partition into the other half of the dining room, where Aziraphale sat in Crowley's own body, studying the wine list.

"Ah, my dear!" Aziraphale brightened, and it didn't look quite right on Crowley's sharp face, but perfect in all the ways that mattered. "There you are, you've been gone for quite-"

A pause.

"Crowley, my- _your_ coat."

"...yes?"

"You left to bring it to the cloakroom."

"Yes." Crowley winced, remembering his scramble for a convincing excuse.

_"You're still wearing it."_

"Ah," said Crowley, and wanted to bash his head against the nearest wall.

"Oh, whatever would you do without me," Aziraphale sighed, but in a fond way, and snapped his fingers, the coat having a sudden mid-existence crisis and realising it needed a change of scenery, instantly removing itself to the cloakroom.

"Despair, probably." Crowley responded as jokingly as he could, so Aziraphale wouldn't recognise it as the honest truth.

He settled down into his chair, noting that Aziraphale had tucked one of the yellow roses into his buttonhole - it clashed terribly with his at-the-moment-red hair, but simply the sight of him wearing a gift of Crowley's set his heart a-flutter.

They chatted amicably for a while, just another evening at the Ritz, like a thousand others, and ordered when a waiter came drifting by.*

*Not the same as the one who had served Crowley and Petrael, but judging from the dirty looks she was throwing Crowley's way, gossip had already spread the news of Mr Fell's double-dating ways throughout the entire staff, and it was only their utmost professionalism and the Ritz's strict anti-domestic-disputes policy that was currently safeguarding his bacon.

It was nothing special. They dined together often, and doing it "swapped" had long ceased to present much of a novelty.

* * *

Crowley's plan had, initially, been to simply abandon Petrael, and hope that that rejection delivered a blow to his pride substantial enough to keep him away from the bookshop forever.

However, Crowley had been quite right to categorise Petrael as stubborn, and twenty-five(-and-a-half) minutes into a lovely chat about Kafka and the Velvet Underground's discography,* Crowley suddenly jolted in his seat.

*Just because their interests lay diametrically opposed didn't mean they couldn't hold a pleasant conversation about them.

A slight brush of divine power, along his shoulder, searching…

Petrael was _looking for him._

"Sorry, uh, need to-" Crowley scrambled up, knowing with absolute certainty that Petrael's attention needed to be focused on something _far away_ from the real Aziraphale, before he came actually, bodily, searching for the fake version, and found-

Oh, this was getting mighty confusing, wasn't it.

"Ask. Waiter. Something."

Aziraphale's body's more stocky legs were not so suited to quickly stalking, but Crowley managed anyway, hopping along in more of a hurried waddle.*

*The Esteemed Reader is invited to imagine a penguin with an urgent errand to run - and, incidentally, its lower half on fire.

(Though, of course, a real penguin would never even _dream_ of lying, and be appalled at such disgraceful conduct.

Upstanding creatures, penguins. Not like humans at all.)

He threw himself back into his seat at the other table, scraping together a warm smile from the residual love and contentment he always felt in Aziraphale's presence.

"So very sorry for the delay!" He babbled brightly, hoping to G- Sa- Someone that Aziraphale's body somehow gave off the impression of endearing scatterbrainedness rather than all his evil plans* crumbling to pieces under his hands.

*Well. Evil-ish. Crowley hadn't had a genuinely evil plan since 1972, and that had really been more of an accident, which he'd felt very bad about afterwards.

"You're not wearing your jacket." Petrael observed mildly.

"Ah. Yes. The wine stain wasn't removable so quickly, I fear…"

"But... didn't you spill the wine on your _trousers?"_

"Hrrrgh," Crowley said, and contemplated committing seppuku with the butter knife.

"Well, no matter!" Petrael said brightly, and reached across the desk, grasping one of Crowley's hands before he could snatch them away.

"Aziraphale," he began, emphatically, and Crowley winced.

This smacked of a love confession.

Crowley knew the signs, especially the meaningful _Aziraphale_ at the start.*

*Crowley might have. Hypothetically. Have started some of his own old confession speech drafts. In a similar manner. Maybe.

"Ever since I first saw you among the legions of Heaven… you fascinated me. Your beauty is unparalleled, and you shine more brightly than even the highest of archangels!"

Well. Crowley couldn't argue with that.

Petrael had taste, at least.

"We talked so little, but I _knew."_

"Knew. Er. What?"

"That you loved me, of course!"

Crowley choked on the sip (gulp) of wine he'd been taking.*

*He needed to be so much more drunk for this. _So much more._

"You never said, because of our difference in position, of course, and the oppressive structures of Heaven… but I knew what you were telling me through little gestures! You love me too!"

Crowley swallowed.

"I… I'm ever so sorry, dear boy, but you must have been mistaken." He forced out. "I don't feel the same!"

"Not yet!" Petrael said brightly, and just a bit manic.

_Right._

Crowley was slowly realising that the bullet he was currently diverting from Aziraphale was really more of a cannonball.

"We will begin courting, and soon, the divine love we both share will connect us forever!"

"Er." Crowley cast his mind about for something absolutely despicable to say, and came up blank. His thoughts usually went in the direction of _wooing,_ not snubbing.

"I know that bliss awaits us two!" Petrael announced dramatically. "I see Heaven shine from thine eyes, Aziraphale!"

"Do you really." Crowley muttered, wishing that there was _anyone_ beside him who could appreciate the irony of the statement, just one other person to-

"...Crowley?"

_Except that person. Please, not him, anyone but him._

Crowley turned, dread rising in his stomach, and saw his _own_ face slack with shock, eyes darting from him to Petrael and back.

"Yes. Crowley. That is you." Crowley said quickly. "Aziraphale. Me. I can explain."

"What?" Aziraphale's face creased endearingly, and nobody who knew them both would think, for even one moment that this was Crowley. "What are you-"

Petrael made a disgusted sound, and it was enough to make Aziraphale break off mid-sentence.

"Why is this…" Petrael's handsome face creased in most unpleasant ways. _"...demon_ interrupting our date, Aziraphale?"

"Your what." Aziraphale - the real Aziraphale - said, quite calmly, but clearly not intending to remain as such.

 _"Date."_ Petrael enunciated, sneering. "Not that a vile wretch like you would know the beauty of sharing God's Love!"

Crowley steadily shrunk in his seat.

"Oh! Oh, now I've heard it all!" Aziraphale was burning with righteous fury, more magnificent and imposing than ever, Crowley's poor corporation creaking under the strain of such divine indignation.

"It's not-" Crowley tried feebly.

He could see Aziraphale was about ready to explode, and at this point it hardly mattered whether he was going to try and smite Crowley himself or Petrael, he was as good as dead either way.

"I cannot BELIEVE you!" Aziraphale burst out - but at Crowley, wonderful, then at least there was a chance that Heaven would never catch wind of their switch, and Aziraphale could spend a happy, undisturbed eternity alone on earth after he'd murdered Crowley. Lovely.

"Gallivanting off to dine with some, some _harlot*,_ while I am sitting alone! On Valentine's Day, no less!"

*Petrael made an affronted sound, but Crowley mouthed _'you are though'_ at him, which was quite effective to shut him up again.

"Look, _Crowley,"_ Crowley stressed carefully, discreetly jerking his head in Petrael's direction, hoping to get the point across, "you have it entirely-"

"After all these years!" Now, Aziraphale seemed close to tears, even behind the sunglasses. "One thousand years of marriage, and you… you _replace_ me with a more handsome angel* the first chance you get!"

*Petrael preened. Crowley kicked his shin under the table.

"Disgraceful!" One of the passing waiters threw in, glaring at Crowley.*

*There may or may not have been a discreet tip-off which had led Aziraphale over to this side of the restaurant.

Professionalism only went so far, where hearts were concerned.**

**Plus, it would've been a shame about the betting pool, seeing as nobody had even so much as _contemplated_ the idea of one of them cheating on the other.

Crowley took a deep breath.

Readied himself to calm Aziraphale down, explain that there was absolutely no replacing going on, that there was no need for the waitstaff to lynch him, and that Petrael's admittedly pleasing facade paled under the sheer beauty of-

"MARRIAGE?" Petrael thundered.

A brief moment of silence.

 _"...marriage!?"_ Crowley squeaked, at a pitch that gave the gourmet rat in the kitchen a run for its money. "When. When did we…"

"When did-" Aziraphale stared at him in disbelief. "1020! The _Arrangement!"_

"T-that was a purely _business_ thing!"

"We signed a marriage license!"

"...was that not just a contract?"

_"And we kissed!"_

"It was the 1000s, Az- Crowley!" Crowley stammered. "B-back then, man-shaped beings k-kissed all the time. N-nothing to it."*

*There had, actually, been quite a lot _'to it';_ and Crowley shaking like an epileptic aspen leaf all through the kiss was half the reason why Aziraphale had resolved to make their marriage an entirely chaste one, unless Crowley should one day express interest in giving it another try.

(He hadn't, for 1000 years, but that was quite alright. Aziraphale wore Crowley's ring, and was his lawfully wedded spouse before God and Men - though apparently not before Crowley - and that was more than he ever could've hoped for.)

Aziraphale's face - well, Crowley's - fell, and with it his heart, visibly shattering on the ground.

"Oh. Hng." He said - Crowley's body was prone to consonants in a pinch - and one hand came up to toy with a ring* that was on Crowley's hand at the moment, of course. "N-nothing."

*The inside of said ring, if the Esteemed Reader wishes to know, read _A &C, 1020 - eternum, _ and Aziraphale had long adopted a habit of fiddling with it whenever Heaven checked up on him.

"You fool!" Petrael hissed gleefully, face contorted in a sneer. Really, overall, he was quite ugly, symmetric features or not. "Of course he would never marry a demonic wretch like you! Holy matrimony is reserved for those walking in God's Light, not-"

"I love you!" Crowley burst out, desperate to make the tears on Aziraphale's borrowed cheeks go away, and determined to prove Petrael wrong.

"I. I. Genuinely didn't. Know." He continued to stammer. "This date was literally just to get rid of creepface over here because he kept snooping around y- my bookshop." And then, because it was worth repeating once more: "And I _love_ you!"

"Oh, darling." Aziraphale sniffed. "That, I _know."_

("...what." Petrael said, but was ignored.)

Crowley smiled shyly.

Aziraphale hesitantly smiled back.

It wasn't as grand a confession as Petrael had delivered, but big Feelings, the capitalised ones which filled your entire heart to the brim and threatened to choke you with their sheer volume - those Feelings weren't always made for big words.

"So." Aziraphale said conversationally. "Now that you _are_ aware of our marriage, dear boy… was shagging on the table all along?"

"Angel," Crowley said, a little unthinkingly, beaming from ear to ear, "kiss me."

And with those words, he reached up and pulled Aziraphale down to meet him lips-first halfway.

The entire restaurant cheered - except for Petrael, who made a gagging noise; but at that precise point one of the waiters 'accidentally' dropped a serving tray on his head, which took care of _that_ problem.*

*Crowley made a mental note never to anger the waitstaff of the Ritz again.

Oh yes, Crowley thought, as their kissing grew more heated, hands roaming and bodies pressed against each other and supernatural essences furiously mingling, shagging was _definitely_ on the table - and, perhaps, would happen right on this one, if they threw public decency into the wind.

(Or, perhaps, they might go home instead. Together.

Apparently, it was quite a few years since their wedding night already, but better late than never.) 

* * *

So, to conclude the scene:

One (1) yellow rose in a buttonhole, slowly blushing into a glowing, passionate red.

One (1) thoroughly snubbed creep (see _unconscious)_ currently being carried out of the restaurant, never to return.

One (1) apprentice kitchen porter, who had unknowingly won the betting pool with her uncanny prediction of "one of them didn't know they were married, finds out when he tries to date someone else" (see _idiots)._

  
  
  


And, most importantly:

One (1) married couple, furiously kissing and well on their way to more (see _indecent exposure)._

(Their fingers, stubby and soft, and thin and elegant, fit together perfectly - no matter _who_ they currently belong to...)

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, at last, I finished something again!  
> Most of this was panic-written in the past 24 hours, hope that doesnt show...
> 
> And I really, really hope my recipient has enjoyed this! Happy 1000-year Anniversary of the Arrangement/30-year Anniversary of Good Omens! <3 <3 <3
> 
> (Also, thanks to Cheese for reading through this and assuring me it doesn't suck, the support of the book club server, and Lurlur for organising this all!)
> 
> Finally, if you enjoyed, do please consider leaving a kudos or comment!  
> ^-^ <3


End file.
